just in time
by vtforpedro
Summary: In which Aziraphale meets his new neighbor.


The house smells of old books and toasted marshmallows, and the low crooning of Frank Sinatra fills the air. It's a place of comfort, with cushy armchairs and a large white brick fireplace. There are freshly made biscuits on the end table and an open book laid on the armrest of a chair.

There's an old-fashioned television that's rarely used in the corner of the room, but it's the gramophone laid on the table in the opposite corner of the room that's playing music. Frank Sinatra's sultry and smooth voice fit the day well. It's just on the cusp of autumn, not quite cool yet, but not as sweltering as it has been.

Sinatra's Christmas albums are waiting eagerly to be played, but that won't be for another few months yet, if he can help it.

Aziraphale breathes in deeply over his cup of cocoa and relaxes back against his armchair. He sighs in satisfaction and looks at the window, where he can see his garden. It's splashed with bright purples and pinks from the flowers, but the trees are steadily fading from emerald to reds and oranges and yellows, like brilliant suns in every corner.

"A truly perfect day," Aziraphale says to himself before he takes a sip of his cocoa.

He normally reserves cocoa for the evening but he couldn't quite help himself today. The idea of sitting with a book and cocoa, while listening to music, as the glorious afternoon sun shines through his windows, had been too much to pass up.

It's Sunday, his one day off a week from work at the bookshop, and if he wishes to indulge himself, well… there isn't anyone to tell him not to.

Aziraphale lives half an hour outside of London, in his little two bedroom home, just big enough for him and his cat. He used to live in the bookshop when he was younger, before the lack of space between work and home became too small for him. He needed separation, a place where he might be completely relaxed, instead of working merely because he was always at work.

So he'd bought this little cottage in a little village and hasn't looked back since.

He's very happy where he's at. It can be lonely sometimes, of course, with only his cat for company and not many friends. There's an ache within him, something he can't particularly pinpoint, but that he thinks he should try to fill one day.

Whether that's a nice holiday or a date or perhaps just a very good meal at the Ritz, he isn't sure.

He sips his cocoa and reads his book but the lack of… something begins to bother him.

Aziraphale looks down at his lap. "Aha," he says with a smile.

His lap is unusually bare.

"My dear boy," Aziraphale calls. He clicks and meows, but his cat doesn't appear.

Normally he would have been in Aziraphale's lap before he could even get himself comfortable, so the lack of his company is noticeable.

Aziraphale huffs and stands, walking to the kitchen. He sees that the food bowl is filled, as is the water bowl, so it's not that keeping his cat away. Clicking and calling, Aziraphale wanders through his home, until he decides that it's only him inside.

It's an odd time of the day to be out and about, but perhaps he is lounging on the veranda?

Aziraphale walks outside and looks around.

"Bilbo?" he calls. "Bilbo, where on earth have you gone? It's our lazy Sunday afternoon, not a frisky Saturday."

Aziraphale walks down his stone pathway leading toward the sidewalk and gasps as he sees an orange tail curve around the shrubs between his home and his new neighbor's.

"My scrumptious, darling boy," Aziraphale calls as he sneaks to the end of the shrubs and pokes his head around it. "What _ever _are you doing over there?"

"Uh… watering my roses… how about you?" a voice says.

Aziraphale gasps and quickly stands up straight, looking over the shrub that's nearly as tall as him. He gapes at the man standing on the other side, who is peering at him strangely from over a pair of dark sunglasses, but also with a slight smile.

"I… but… not you," Aziraphale says in a rush, his cheeks hot. "My boy! Bilbo!"

"...Bilbo?" the man asks with a raised eyebrow.

"My cat," Aziraphale blurts. "He's just gone around to your side."

The man looks around. "Mmm… no, no cat over here."

"But I saw—" Aziraphale cuts himself off as he looks down at his feet. He scoffs.

There, laying at his feet, is an orange tabby cat.

"Always causing trouble, aren't you?"

"Not _always," _the man says.

Aziraphale laughs and picks up Bilbo. "This one, rather," he says as he shows his neighbor. Bilbo merely blinks as Aziraphale picks up his paw and waves it at the man. "Say hello to…?"

"Crowley," the man says. "We've yet to meet."

"Yes, I keep meaning to introduce myself," Aziraphale says sheepishly. "I'm Aziraphale."

"Well, Aziraphale," Crowley says as he fiddles with something on the other side of the shrub. He reaches over it and in his hand is a brilliantly red and very large rose. "For you and for… Bilbo."

Aziraphale takes the flower as he stares at Crowley in awe. "Oh," he sighs as he looks at the beautiful rose, its petals dotted with water droplets. He breathes in its scent. "How lovely! You've got a way with roses."

Crowley's cheeks turn a faintly pink color. "I tell them they ought to grow better or else I'll dig them up," he says. "That seems to keep them in line."

Aziraphale chuckles, but Crowley's not laughing, so he wonders if there's some truth to it. He coughs a little.

"Well, this one is fantastic," he says. "Thank you very much. What do you think, Bilbo?" He sets his cat down on the ground and lets Bilbo sniff the rose.

"Mrow," says Bilbo.

"Yes, yes very beautiful indeed," Aziraphale says. He looks at Crowley, who is peering at him with a small, amused smile. "Do you like the neighborhood?"

Crowley shrugs. "It's alright," he says as he looks around. "Very… bright and homey. Not sure about the couple who go running every morning at bloody five though."

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale says as he glances across the street at the largest home in the neighborhood. He doesn't like to speak ill of his neighbors, but there's something about these two that make him uncomfortable on the best days. They're rude to him on the worst. "Have you met them?"

"Just the woman," Crowley says, a definite dislike in his voice. "She told me running is a better hobby than gardening when I was planting my begonias a few mornings ago."

"She didn't!" Aziraphale gasps. "How dreadfully rude. Any hobby is a better hobby than _running." _

"Agreed," Crowley says as he looks at Aziraphale. He smiles. "What sort of hobbies do you have?"

Aziraphale huffs a little. "I collect books, but it's also what I do for work. I have a bookshop in Soho," he says. "I suppose collecting books would be considered even more boring, but I do quite like it."

"Nothing wrong with that," Crowley says. "I don't do books normally, never used to have the time, but now that I live in suburbsville with a full garden, I might have to pick up the habit. Soho, you said?"

Aziraphale's fingertips begin to tingle. "Yes, 19 Greek Street," he says.

The idea that Crowley might come visit him at his shop is an exciting one. He supposes he needs to get out more, if that sort of thing excites him, but there's… something about Crowley that he likes. He tends to find something he likes about most everyone he meets, but they don't typically make his heart race or send sparks shooting up and down his spine.

Crowley is tall, red-haired and with those very unique sunglasses. He's got a snake tattoo by his temple and looks like an every day bad boy type, only somewhere near Aziraphale's age, rather than the young crowd he sees wandering Soho.

But for all Aziraphale knows, Crowley could have an attachment already. He thinks that he lives alone, but who knows?

"Well, I have a lot of time on my hands these days," Crowley says. "I'll swing by, see if you can find a book to suit me."

"That sounds… good," Aziraphale says as he attempts to remain calm, cool and collected. Aloof. That's what's popular these days, isn't it? "I'll see you then. And if you'd ever like to come over for a spot of tea or… or cocoa, I do like cocoa, well…! Ring the bell."

He's blushing, he knows he is, but Crowley is merely watching him with that same smile, and Aziraphale's heart may well burst from his chest.

"I'd best feed Bilbo. Good afternoon!"

"Good afternoon, Aziraphale."

It shouldn't feel so good, to hear his name from Crowley's mouth. He waves and collects Bilbo, carefully holding the rose still, and hurries inside so he might not continue to make a fool out of himself.

He puts the flower in water and feeds Bilbo before he collapses on to his armchair again. Bilbo joins him the moment he's had lunch, curling up in his lap, and Aziraphale pets his head.

"What am I going to do?" he asks with a sigh. "I can't very well ask him out. We've only just met! Shouldn't there at least be a courting period? What if he doesn't like that?"

Bilbo blinks slowly at him with his large, green eyes.

"I can't ask him. You don't understand. You're a cat."

Bilbo purrs and lays his head down on Aziraphale's lap, but his tail is twitching, as it does when he's up to no good.

Aziraphale merely keeps petting him and gazes out of his window, trying not to picture Crowley nextdoor, watering his roses.

"I'm in very big trouble," he says once he's failed at that. It's quite a picture after all.

"Brrp," says Bilbo, without even lifting his head.

—

Aziraphale doesn't see Crowley for three days. On the third, he's sure that Crowley has forgotten what he said about coming to the bookshop, and tries not to feel down about it. Crowley himself had said he didn't really _do _books, so perhaps he decided he still wasn't interested. And they haven't run into each other in the neighborhood either.

Three days. Three very long days.

Aziraphale stocks the newest batch of books he had gotten in yesterday and which have officially made it into inventory today.

Most of his books are used, but in good condition, and of course he has his rare collections in the back room. But every once in a while he deigns to order the newest young adult fantasy novel making its rounds around the world.

He doesn't particularly care for some of them, preferring the classics, but he gets enough customers looking for them that he always keeps a small stock.

It's better to stay in business than fail to make rent because he's stubborn.

Once he's done stocking, he sits at his desk with an extremely old copy of _Pride and Prejudice, _and uses a magnifying glass to scour through the pages, rather than breathing hot air onto them.

It's a lovely book, bound in red and gold, and he thinks about adding it to his own collection rather than selling it. It's in the best condition of any he's found so far, but at the same time, he might make a very good sale out of it.

The bell above the door rings.

"I'll be right with you! Feel free to browse!" Aziraphale calls as he flips another page.

It's quiet for a while, until Aziraphale worries that someone may be up to no good, and leaves his desk to wander out into the shop.

In one corner stands a man dressed in all black, with beautiful, deep red hair.

"Oh," Aziraphale says in surprise, every fiber of his being singing with happiness, "hello, Crowley!"

Crowley turns around, a copy of that horrid new young adult fantasy in his hands. "Hello, Aziraphale," he says, something sheepish in his tone. "Sorry I haven't made it yet. The back garden desperately needed my attention. The hydrangeas were out of line."

Aziraphale chuckles. "Well, we mustn't have that," he says, not entirely sure how bushes can be out of line. _"The Seven Rings," _he recites as he comes to stand as close to Crowley as he dares. "My newest addition. Do you… like young adult literature?"

"I wouldn't know," Crowley says with raised eyebrows. "It was the shiniest, so I picked it up."

Aziraphale grins in relief. "I'm certain we can find you something, even if it's not particularly shiny."

But, Aziraphale comes to learn, Crowley is one of his trickiest customers. He hems and haws over everything. The cover, the title, the summary, the colors, how big the text is. He doesn't want any of the classics, no matter how hard Aziraphale tries, but that doesn't really matter. Aziraphale knows well not everyone has the same taste as him.

But there must be _something _Crowley likes.

Not that Aziraphale minds taking so much time out of his day. He gets to spend it with Crowley after all, who is surprisingly funny and mischievous, and delightfully awkward when Aziraphale compliments his shoes.

They are very fine shoes and to see a blush on Crowley's cheeks gives him endless enjoyment.

In the end, Crowley buys _The Martian _and _Peter Pan. _

A bit of both worlds, Aziraphale thinks, newer fiction and an old classic.

"It's Bilbo!" Crowley says, quite out of nowhere.

"Hmm? Oh, yes!" Aziraphale says as he looks at his cat entering the room. "He comes with me to work every day. I could hardly leave him alone at home when I have late nights."

"He's a cat, though, isn't he?"

"He craves my company," Aziraphale says with a smile as Bilbo winds himself around Crowley's ankle. "Though not typically the company of anyone else. Isn't that right, Bilbo?"

Crowley eyes Bilbo as he reaches down to pat his head. "Where on earth did you get the name Bilbo anyway?"

Aziraphale gapes at Crowley. "From… Bilbo Baggins…?" he manages. Crowley merely looks more confused and Aziraphale must take in a deep breath before answering. _"The Lord of the Rings? The Hobbit?" _

"Ah, yeah, those," Crowley says. "Never read them."

"I… I see," Aziraphale says, a bit winded. He holds onto his chair for support before he sticks his finger in the air. "Then you must take those home as well! You can borrow the copies I have here. We are neighbors after all, you can give them back anytime."

"You don't have to do that," Crowley says. "What if I spill coffee on them?"

"They're generic enough copies," Aziraphale says as he walks to the corner of the shop that carries Tolkien's works. "Keep them, if you'd like."

He grabs the four books and hands them over to Crowley, who looks mildly overwhelmed.

"It might take me five years to go through these, you know," Crowley says. "You'll be waiting a long time for my opinion."

"That's alright," Aziraphale says with a smile. "As long as I know you have them, I'll feel better."

Crowley looks amused. "Well, thank you then," he says. "I suppose I'd best be off."

"Oh… oh yes, of course," Aziraphale says. "I suppose the afternoon is getting on, isn't it?"

Crowley walks very slowly to the door and Aziraphale follows him. Crowley's been here an hour, but it feels like a mere handful of minutes, and Aziraphale is sad to see him go. He would ask Crowley to stay, but he can't seem to find the courage to.

He opens the door for Crowley and follows him out onto the first step, looking at the stack of books in Crowley's arms. He's even more attractive that way, Aziraphale laments.

"I don't suppose you'd like to get a spot of lunch?" Crowley asks. Rather blurts, as he's speaking unnecessarily loud for how close Aziraphale is to him.

Aziraphale gapes wordlessly at Crowley before he jumps when Crowley raises his eyebrows. "I'd… yes, I'd quite like that!" he says breathlessly. "I haven't eaten lunch yet, so that would be very nice."

Crowley sighs in what sounds like relief, and grins. "Good," he says. "I know a place not far from here that most people don't know about. I think you'll like it."

"Wonderful," Aziraphale says with a grin of his own. "Let me just… close the shop…" He flips the open sign to closed and locks the door, waving goodbye to Bilbo, who is laying in the shop window on his cat bed.

"Car's around the corner," Crowley says and leads Aziraphale that way.

Aziraphale gasps when he sees Crowley's car. It's an incredibly old Bentley, perhaps 1930s, but it's condition is rather remarkable.

"What a beautiful vehicle," he sighs as Crowley opens the door for him, like a proper gentleman. "How on earth do you keep it in such pristine condition?"

"By spending far too much time with it," Crowley says as he walks around to his side and gets into the car. He turns it on and a loud song blasts through it, with someone blaring something about a lover boy. "Sorry, sorry," Crowley says quickly as he turns it off. "Forgot to turn it down."

"Quite alright," Aziraphale says as he rubs his ear. "Bebob, eh?"

Crowley gapes at him for a while before he begins to laugh. "Bebop, right," he says with a grin. "Classic bebop."

Aziraphale smiles, knowing full well he's being made fun of, but he doesn't mind when it's Crowley doing it, because he knows it's not from a place of cruelty.

Aziraphale has always been able to sense when someone is good deep down, a special knack of his, and he can tell Crowley is one of the good ones.

Except for perhaps trying to get them killed, what with the way he drives through London. Aziraphale merely holds on, his heart racing, not entirely with fear.

They stop in front of a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and get out of the car.

"I've… actually been here before, once," Aziraphale says uncertainly, not wanting to ruin Crowley's day.

"Really?" Crowley asks in surprise. "Never met anyone else who has. Do you like the food?"

"Love it," Aziraphale says and coughs as they walk up to the doors. Crowley opens it for him and he smiles in thanks as he steps inside of the familiar establishment.

They tend to serve greasy breakfasts all day, but they're truly fantastic, and they make some wonderful cocktails to go along with their food.

"Ahh, Aziraphale!" the chef, Alejandro, hollers from the kitchen. "And Crowley! Didn't know you two knew each other!"

Crowley lowers his sunglasses to peer at Aziraphale. "Once?"

"Well, maybe one dozen times or so," Aziraphale says as he straightens his bow tie and grins sheepishly. "You have very good taste, you know."

Crowley laughs, long and loud, and it's possibly the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever heard. He follows Crowley to a table as they say their hellos to the chef.

"Hello, lads," their waitress says as she comes to greet them. There's something odd in her eyes, almost mischievous, as she looks between them. "What to drink?"

"Is it too early for a Bloody Mary?" Crowley asks Aziraphale, looking hopeful.

"Not at all," Aziraphale says quickly. "As that's what I was going to get."

They grin at each other before they swiftly avert their gazes and browse the menu. Aziraphale orders the salmon eggs benedict and Crowley gets the corned beef hash.

It isn't hard to start a conversation, especially not about food, and Aziraphale is delighted to know that Crowley has had nearly everything on the menu, the same as he has. He's also tried most of the cocktails and seems to be a bit of a connoisseur of liquor.

Aziraphale simply tries not to fall in love.

Crowley grew up in London, the same as Aziraphale, and they're both rather shocked to discover they went to the same schools and hung around the same neighborhoods growing up. Crowley is just two years younger than Aziraphale, so they barely missed each other, but it means they have an incredible amount in common.

Aziraphale marvels at how effortless it is to speak with Crowley. There isn't a break in conversation, not one. Aziraphale knows he does quite a lot of talking but Crowley listens intently, his attention never wavering from Aziraphale.

It's painless and uncomplicated and, Aziraphale thinks, exactly what he has been looking for lately.

Even if nothing happens between them, even if Crowley rejects Aziraphale, he thinks that they can be good friends. He'd like much more than that, but who knows where Crowley's preferences lie?

Though he does blush nicely whenever Aziraphale compliments him.

They stay in the restaurant well past being done with lunch and share more Bloody Marys. It isn't until the sun begins to fall that Crowley drives Aziraphale back to the bookshop, thankfully not like a maniac.

Crowley walks Aziraphale to the door and leans against the frame as Aziraphale unlocks it. He's so very close that Aziraphale can smell his cologne, which reminds him of the spices he smelled in Fiji when he'd gone on holiday. And then Crowley takes off his sunglasses and smiles at Aziraphale, in that charming way of his, and Aziraphale gazes at him, saying a heartfelt goodbye to his heart.

It's no longer just his after all.

"Thank you, Crowley," he says. "I truly had a lovely time."

"Yeah, me too," Crowley says, his eyes endlessly brown, shining molten honey in the last vestiges of daylight. "Hope to do it again?"

"Most certainly," Aziraphale says as he beams. "Perhaps we can exchange numbers?"

"Good idea," Crowley says as he pulls out his smartphone.

Aziraphale pulls out his own phone and Crowley makes a choking sound.

"What… is that?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale asks as he holds his phone close to his face to be able to read the text as he opens his contacts.

"You do realize it's 2019 and not 2003, right?" Crowley says flatly.

"What?" Aziraphale frowns as he looks at his phone. "It's reliable!"

"No, it just can't be killed because it's a cursed object."

Aziraphale laughs. "Give me your number, will you?"

Crowley does so, mumbling about bricks for phones. "I won't even be able to text you," he complains. "Texting is easiest."

"I suppose you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way and call me," Aziraphale says slyly. "I _do _like hearing peoples' voices."

Crowley sighs and smiles indulgently. "Course, angel," he says with a shake of his head. "I'll call you soon, if I don't see you first. Catch you later."

"Yes, catch you later," Aziraphale says, somewhat dreamily, as Crowley waves and heads back to his car.

After Crowley has winked and driven off, Aziraphale leans back against the shop door, ignoring the crowd bustling up and down the sidewalk.

"Angel," he says. "He called me angel."

And when he enters the shop again, Bilbo is there to greet him, peering up at Aziraphale expectantly.

"I'll tell you all about it," Aziraphale says. "But first I need a pillow to scream into."

"Mrow," agrees Bilbo.

—

Crowley calls Aziraphale the night of their lunch. He says it's to make sure that he gave Aziraphale his number correctly, but Aziraphale has a strange inkling that's not the entire reason why.

Either way, they end up speaking for hours, well into the night, about anything and everything.

Crowley's parents have passed on, much like Aziraphale's, and they learn they're both an only child. It's incredible to Aziraphale, just how much they have in common, but also what two very different people they are, despite their similar circumstances.

Crowley likes rock and roll and fast cars and skinny jeans, and Aziraphale likes Frank Sinatra and walking through London and bow ties.

But they have nearly the same taste in foods (though Crowley calls Aziraphale's love of crepes an obsession by the time they're hanging up the phone) and alcohol. Crowley might like dogs better than cats but he agrees that Bilbo is a fine fellow. It warms Aziraphale's heart either way.

The way that Crowley says _good night _nearly sends Aziraphale to the grave.

"Big, big trouble," he tells Bilbo before bed.

Bilbo looks as if he agrees but doesn't particularly mind it.

Morning dawns bright and early, the way it always does for Aziraphale, and he gets out of bed, his mind immediately on Crowley. Had they really spent hours talking on the phone, like teenagers all over again? Aziraphale realizes he hasn't done that in decades, something that's a bit of a shock to him, but it's fitting that it's Crowley who makes him feel youthful again.

That it's Crowley who has given him a spark.

Aziraphale walks into the bathroom and frowns at a pair of black socks on the ground.

"Those… aren't mine," he says, blinking to himself.

He walks into the bedroom and gapes at a pair of black boxer briefs lying on the floor in front of the door.

"Those aren't mine either," he says faintly.

Just as he's beginning to fear someone has broken in and undressed themselves for reasons unknown, Bilbo struts into the room, another pair of boxer briefs in his mouth. These have flames on the band.

"Bilbo!" Aziraphale hisses. "What on earth has gotten into you? Whose are these?"

Bilbo merely turns and runs out of the room. Aziraphale hurries after him, gathering pieces of clothing in his arms as he goes, as there are _many _pieces.

There are tank tops and more socks, more boxer briefs and the occasional black leather glove.

He can't have gone far carrying these, Aziraphale thinks, even if Bilbo's never done this before. And whoever he has robbed, if these clothes weren't out in the trash, likes the color black.

Aziraphale freezes with a large load of clothing in his arms, his mouth hanging open as he looks at the trail leading to the cat door.

He knows someone who likes black clothing.

Aziraphale sets the clothes down on his armchair and finds his phone. He winces at how early it is, not even eight yet, before he decides to dial Crowley.

It rings twice before Crowley picks up. "Good morning," he says, only sounding slightly tired, but a bit bewildered. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, yes everything is fine," Aziraphale says quickly. "Only, erm… I was wondering if you've noticed anything unusual?"

"Mm, yeah," Crowley says. "As a matter of fact, I noticed about twenty seconds before you called me. I think I've been robbed. But they've targeted my clothes."

Aziraphale winces. "Yes, I thought so," he says with a sigh. When Crowley makes an inquiring noise, Aziraphale says sheepishly, "Bilbo has robbed you."

Crowley scoffs. "Bilbo? Your cat has taken half my clothes?"

"And brought them here, I'm afraid. There's a trail leading from my bedroom through the house and to… yes, the garden," Aziraphale says and groans as he walks outside.

There are even more clothes, all leading to a hole in the fence he shares with Crowley.

He picks them up as he walks to the fence and, by the time he gets there, Crowley has appeared in his own back garden. They hang up their phones as Crowley walks to the fence, peering over it at Aziraphale.

His red hair is mussed up from sleep and he doesn't wear his sunglasses, but he's squinting in the daylight and… oh, no.

It's far too early to love him, Aziraphale admonishes himself. But it's not too early to find him incredibly adorable.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says. "He's never done this before."

Crowley holds his arms out and Aziraphale hands over the huge pile of clothes. "Guess I'm closing my window tonight," he says with a smirk. "Speak of the devil."

Aziraphale looks behind him and at Bilbo, who is strolling across the garden toward them, as carefree as any cat has ever been. He hops onto the fence and purrs as he walks between Aziraphale and Crowley, rubbing against Crowley's arm.

"I didn't even hear him rooting around in my bedroom," Crowley says as he scratches Bilbo's ears with his free hand.

"I suppose I can add burglar to the list of his qualities," Aziraphale says with a sigh. "I wonder what's gotten into him."

"It's almost like…" Crowley trails off and clears his throat, his cheeks red. "Well, I don't know."

"Tell me," Aziraphale says with a smile.

"I think he'd like for us to spend more time together, is all," Crowley says, not meeting Aziraphale's eye. "Why else would he pick up a new hobby?"

Aziraphale's cheeks feel very warm. "Cats _are _mischievous," he says as looks at Bilbo. Bilbo headbutts Crowley until he resumes petting him. "Well… I don't mind spending more time with you, Crowley. I'd quite like it in fact."

Crowley looks at Aziraphale then, his eyes wide and strangely vulnerable for a moment. He finally smiles, warm and with something else to it. Something Aziraphale can't name, but that feels familiar.

"Me too," Crowley says. "What time do you have to open the shop?"

"At nine, usually," Aziraphale says. "But I do own it. I'm allowed to be late."

Crowley chuckles. "Then maybe you'd like to do breakfast?"

Aziraphale beams. "I would love to. Where would you like to go?"

Crowley shrugs and looks mildly embarrassed. "I can cook breakfast for us… if you'd like," he says. "I'm a pretty good cook, when I'm in the mood."

"Oh," Aziraphale sighs happily. _A man that can cook, _is what he thinks, but thankfully doesn't say. "That sounds absolutely wonderful."

Crowley grins. "D'you like pancakes?"

"Who _doesn't _like pancakes?" Aziraphale asks gleefully.

"Weirdos," Crowley says with a laugh. "Give me five minutes to get dressed and put these away and then come over."

"I'll see you in five minutes, then," Aziraphale says and waves before he picks up Bilbo.

He heads back toward the house but Crowley calls, "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale turns to look at him. Even Bilbo's ears perk up. "Yes?"

"Are you against a bottle of champagne before work?"

"To share with you? Not at all."

Crowley's cheeks are pink again. "Good," he says. "Because I feel like celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"...new beginnings. Getting to know someone. Breakfast dates with handsome men, thanks to their cats."

Aziraphale blushes and can't quite keep a grin off his face. "I suppose those are perfect reasons to celebrate," he says. "Are you opposed to kissing while celebrating?"

Crowley nearly drops his clothes, but he manages to hold on, and laughs. "I'm not, really," he says with a grin. "As long as it's you I'm kissing, angel."

"Goodness, go inside already," Aziraphale says, flustered.

Crowley snickers and waves before he's off toward his home.

Aziraphale watches him go, warmth fluttering in his heart. He sighs and looks at Bilbo in his arms. Bilbo is peering up at him, blinking slowly, as if he's got it all figured out already.

Aziraphale supposes he does.

He chuckles and goes inside to feed Bilbo and to get dressed for his morning date.

It's all thanks to Bilbo, he thinks. His darling, scrumptious boy.

And one day Bilbo will walk down the aisle with them, but that will come in time. Today they dine on pancakes and drink fine champagne and share their first kiss, the way Aziraphale thinks it was always going to be.

They just needed a nudge in the right direction.


End file.
